


dream a little dream of me

by OnyxSphynx



Series: newmann one-shots [103]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Ghost Drifting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Movie: Pacific Rim: Uprising (2018), The Drift (Pacific Rim)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-11-24 03:54:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20901233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphynx/pseuds/OnyxSphynx
Summary: “Newton,” Hermann says, again, and moves towards him.The other flinches. “I’m fine,” he yells, “just—give me a moment, alright? I’m fine. I’mfine,okay?”





	dream a little dream of me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Macremae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macremae/gifts).

> [bae-science](https://bae-science.tumblr.com/) asked for a fic based off [this](https://pacificrimdyke.tumblr.com/post/188102340838/deep-dark-fears-breaking-out-of-your-shell-an)

_one_

He’s dreaming again; standing on the edge of the precipice, surrounded by the darkness of the void, the ground beneath him crumbles away mere feet ahead of him; a chasm looming down, down, _down._

A rumble; he starts, hand coming up to clutch at—_something,_ only he doesn’t know what; stops when he catches sight of the sickly blue veins pulsing beneath his skin.

For a moment, he hangs; the darkness eating away at the ground before him.

Silence.

Then he shudders; silent, still, unable to make a single sound; brittle skin flaking and breaking, revealing—_nothing,_ nothing but a black, colourless void; full of space—

And _empty._

Silent tears spill down his cheeks; rage and terror building up in his chest like a pressure-cooker without release, and he cannot scream; can only clutch at his wrist in mute horror, his gaze flicking down to catch sight of his chest.

It begins anew; his ribcage folds in on itself, crumbling like so much dry sand, and he collapses on himself; falls, falls, _falls—_

_two_

He cannot focus; the writing in front of his eyes drifts; shifts, flowing, and he cannot stop thinking in musical chords, the phantom feel of metal wires coiled beneath his skin, his fingers; the taste of loss, bitter.

He raises his head.

Across the laboratory, Newton sits on his stool, no longer working on an experiment; a guitar rests in his lap; one hand loosely holding the neck, he gazes listlessly into the distance; silent, too-thin frame almost gaunt in the oversized shirt and pants he’s wearing.

Silent.

Hermann can’t feel a thing; his ribcage is tight, constricting his lungs; burning, he rips his gaze away; swallows and attempts to speak; fails.

Remains silent.

Across the room, Newton’s gaze refocuses; he blinks, shakes his head; casts a look at the instrument in his lap and scoffs. “This is shit,” he says. His voice is even, unwavering. He tosses the guitar carelessly aside and pulls on another pair of latex gloves with a _snap._

Hermann forces himself to focus on his work.

_three_

“Newton?” he asks, one day, when he catches sight of the other; standing tense, he looks as if he’s about to break, and Hermann’s heart aches. “Are you alright?”

“I'm—_fine,_” Newton hisses, but he doesn’t move; his hand grips the scalpel tightly, and his eyes are wide; slightly glazed, he barely seems to register his surroundings. His breath whistles, rapid: one two three four—

“_Newton,_” Hermann says, again, and moves towards him.

The other flinches. “I’m _fine,_” he yells, “just—give me a moment, alright? I’m fine. I’m _fine,_ okay?”

Hermann squares his jaw. “You obviously are _not,_” he says, “Newton, please, just let me help—”

The scalpel clatters to the floor; Newt crumples, catches himself on the edge of the table, knuckles gripping, white, and his lips tremble, face pale. “Just _leave it,_” he snaps, “I’m _fine,_ alright?”

_You’re_ not, Hermann doesn’t say; bites his tongue, because saying it will only make things worse and he _knows_ it. Instead, he says, voice trembling the slightest bit, “My door is always open if you need anything, Newton.”

Newton doesn’t reply; refuses to meet his gaze, and Hermann swallows thickly; returns to his work.

_four_

He’s crumbling—

_Silence._

His hands shake; the ground beneath him falls away, blue-black-electric-sharp, and he screams; silent; bones crumble, turn to dust; blow away in a silent wind.

Scatter.

His mind fragments.

Who is he? Who was he? Is he anyone, even, anymore? Is there any of him left at all? Or has it all been consumed—what is him and what isn’t? Is it all just emptiness?

His skin cracks; invisible blood pouring out from non-existent wounds, and he burns, burns, _burns,_ inside and out.

Around him, people move; the noise muted, and they cannot hear him; cannot hear or see his pain, unaware of the man standing in the crowd, falling to pieces.

Wind whistles through the holes; the only sound, frigid and stinging, and he almost weeps.

Is it him? Is it something else?

Is anything left of him?

Maybe there wasn’t any of him to start with anyway.

_five_

Newton is sick.

Hermann can hear him from across the lab; every so often, he pauses his dictating into his handheld recorder to give a violent, shuddery, rasping cough, wheezing afterwards as he struggles to breathe.

Damn it, he can't—

He’s by Newt’s side in a blink; ingnoring the twinge of pain at moving too fast, he grips his cane tighter. “Newton,” he says, “please, you’re _not alright._”

“I’m fine,” Newton says, weakly, but his skin is pallid, and when Hermann reaches out, it’s clammy to the touch.

“Please,” Hermann says—_begs,_ “Newton, I cannot watch you run yourself into the ground any longer. Lay down and rest.”

“I can't—” Newt’s voice cracks. “I can’t,” he says, again, more quietly, and Hermann’s hand is still on his forehead; he sways slightly, leaning into the touch, eyes fluttering. “Hermann, I can’t…I need to get this done.”

“You _cannot!_” Hermann exclaims, “Newton, do not pretend; we both know that you’re having _panic-attacks_ when you try and—”

Newton gives a hacking cough, doubling over, and slips, letting out a cry as he hits the ground.

“Newton!” Hermann falls to the ground by his side; before his eyes, images from over a decade ago flash: Newton, seizing on the ground, bloodied, oh, _God—_

“’M fine,” Newton chokes, head falling onto Hermann’s shoulder limply.

“You’re _not,_” Hermann says.

_six_

They lay in bed together; Newton curled against Hermann’s side, breath shallow as he sleeps. Hermann stares at the wall; the heat of the blanket and Newton both against him—

There’s nothing of him left, not anymore—

By his side, Newton gasps awake, eyes darting wildly, and he grasps at Hermann’s shoulders desperately. “There’s nothing,” he says, brokenly, “Hermann, there’s nothing—”

“Shh,” Hermann murmurs, enveloping him in his arms, “shh, Newton, it’s alright…”

“No it’s not,” Newton whispers, voice choked, “Hermann, it’s not me anymore. I can't—I can’t even do my fucking _work_ without freaking out—Hermann, I’m not—there’s nothing _left._ They took it _all._”

“You’re wrong,” Hermann says, fiercely, “you’re _wrong,_ Newton; you’re not who you were before, but that’s just fine, alright? I promise you, Newton, it’s _alright._”

“But what if it happens again?” Newt’s words tumble out, desperate and scared, and Hermann’s heart aches. “What if—”

“You _won’t,_” Hermann says. “Not now, Newton, and not ever. None of us can go back to who we were, but we _can_ become people who no longer fall into our past mistakes—you’re wiser, now, Newton, and you will _become_ wiser as you grow as a person.”

There’s a beat, and then, quietly, Newton says, “…you’re right.”

“I often am,” Hermann says, softly, and Newton gives a wet chuckle and buries his face into Hermann’s neck.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [harrowwharks](https://harrowwharks.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
